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[Gojira1000]

Oh boy. Terrifying embark. One survivor walled into a dirt room on top of an aquifer with half the supplies from the wagon. Luckily, he's a miner and has a pick. Time to play Dwarf Fortress: I Am Legend version.

[Eldin00]

As long as there was some plump helmet spawn (or raw plump helmets) in the half of the supplies you got inside, your dwarf is well set to survive to the end of his natural life.

[NJW2000]

Wait, dwarves have a natural lifespan?

You mean the whole dying of old age thing happens?

[angelious]

Wait, dwarves have a natural lifespan?

You mean the whole dying of old age thing happens?

premature death is the natural death of a dwarf

[Eldin00]

Wait, dwarves have a natural lifespan?

You mean the whole dying of old age thing happens?

Dwarves can die of old age, and I've even seen it a couple of times when I got really old migrants. But in this case, I was assuming the natural end to this dwarf's life was the inevitable insanity from being haunted by the ghosts of the other 6 who he may not be able to memorialize.

[angelious]

has anybody ever done a one dwarf starting challenge?


kill of the other 6. and just try to start a fort with one dorf only?

[NJW2000]

Look up the story of Urist. Many people like it.

This is also called the "hermit" challenge.

[Gojira1000]

has anybody ever done a one dwarf starting challenge?


kill of the other 6. and just try to start a fort with one dorf only?

Well, I'll let you know how it works out.

[Salmeuk]

Look up the story of Urist. Many people like it.

This is also called the "hermit" challenge.

A link for those interested: http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=15572.0

Most point to Boatmurdered as the quintessential DF story, but I personally remember this as the one that hooked me. Waiting for updates was like nothing else! I'm fairly certain it popularized the concept of a 'hermit' fortress, while also helping to forever cement the "unreliable narrator" as a popular trope within DF writing. Crazed overseers are almost par-for-the-course these days, which is great because it makes for much hilarity.

[Putnam]

It also popularized the name "Urist" as the dwarven name.

[Gojira1000]

Statement of Domas Nethavuz, miner and only survivor of the Raukstvir "Tombsstars" expedition

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

My first anniversary here has come and gone. I don't know why I survived and the others didn't. I don't feel sad. I feel almost nothing but a molten urge for revenge on every piece of un-life that haunts this place.

Nothing moves below-ground but myself and the ghosts. Above, the husks of former comrades, the dismembered horrors that were our livestock and the local fauna limp aimlessly, moaning. I can hear then through the soil overhead. The dragging footsteps never stop.

Three times in the past year groups of settlers arrived. Families. Some made it to the half-unloaded wagon before the things outside tore them to bits, and they, in turn, joined the watch of the dead.

Below, I make slabs. I memorialize my friends and family. I make cold stone obelisks to lay the ghosts of dwarves I never knew.

It took the best part of a year, but I've built an airlock with twin bridges of reinforced oak. Someday I will open them wide and bring things to an end.

It would be funny. But I can't laugh any more.

I am not hopeful that any migrants will survive. The undead number in the dozens, now. Part of me hopes that no more try. The slabs seem to stare at me when I add another to the long, ever-growing rows.

In the chaos of the first attack I was injured. My left hand is still split and swollen, but so far it hasn't become infected. I can still hold a pick. If another comes, and by some miracle makes it through the undead and the fragments of their still-hate-filled corpses, maybe they can help me sew it up. I have thread, Helmet spawn and enough food and drink to last for years on my own.

But no one to talk to except the ghosts.

I've worked alone, in the dark, and tunneled down, past the aquifers at last, into the stone. I have coal. I have limestone and iron. Even if no-one comes, I have what I need, if only I can stay alive long enough.

Sometimes I hear whispers. At night, when I try to sleep. They remind me of the old, old stories. Forbidden history long forgotten. I will follow the old legends. I will make armor, weapons, and I will work ever deeper. I have learned much of the mechanic and engineer's art in my time alone.

I will dig. Down, always down, until I find the forbidden, the forsaken, the forgotten. I will build the pillars and set the mechanisms, in the dark, alone. And, when I am ready, I will lock myself in my room - my tomb to be - and I will pull the switch to collapse the final, deepest seal, and bring true hell to the dead that torment me.

I will have my revenge.

[Gojira1000]

Another year, and I am no longer alone with the ghosts. Most died, adding to the numbers of the besiegers, but a few migrants made their way to the gates, and almost 20 of us remain here, trapped below-ground while the dead walk above.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

We heard a caravan arrive some time ago. The screams lasted for a surprisingly long time. They must have had very skillful guards.

The whispers are louder now. The base of the pillar rests on the slick blue top of the spire – and atop it, in turn, a core of granite weighing several hundred tons. The switch is wired and linked and is in my chamber, next to my coffin. It should strike through to the whispering darkness within. If not, well, there are other ways. Anyone can wield a pick.

If you rest your forehead against the adamantine, you can feel it trying to speak.

One of the migrants,  Etur, reminds me of my wife. She has the same green eyes and braided hair. I wish I could remember my wife's name. She was with me when we arrived. I imagine she's still up there, wandering. Waiting.

I wonder if any part of her remembers me?

The others have asked a few questions about the pillar and the granite obelisk balanced on it. I don't talk much, so they aren't surprised when they don't get an answer.

I'd try to make them understand, but they can't hear the whispers, and, even if they could, they are poisoned by false hope. Some talk of escape, as though a second sprint through the dead forest above will end happily. Unlikely. Flocks of rotting peregrins and ravens surround the bone-strewn entryway, roosting in the trees, crouched on the rotting wagon.

The smiths are making my armor, now. All of adamantium. After the whispering ones deal with the dead I intend to see the surface once last time.

I want to witness the totality of my revenge. I want to drink it to the last drop.

By next season I will have the masons wall in the living quarters and farms. The survivors will last as long at they like. If they are wise, they will follow me when I go to see the sun one last time.

I'm not mad, after all. I wouldn't sacrifice them needlessly. Not needlessly.

Not without reason.

Not like the whispers tell me to.

[angelious]

Another year, and I am no longer alone with the ghosts. Most died, adding to the numbers of the besiegers, but a few migrants made their way to the gates, and almost 20 of us remain here, trapped below-ground while the dead walk above.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

We heard a caravan arrive some time ago. The screams lasted for a surprisingly long time. They must have had very skillful guards.

The whispers are louder now. The base of the pillar rests on the slick blue top of the spire – and atop it, in turn, a core of granite weighing several hundred tons. The switch is wired and linked and is in my chamber, next to my coffin. It should strike through to the whispering darkness within. If not, well, there are other ways. Anyone can wield a pick.

If you rest your forehead against the adamantine, you can feel it trying to speak.

One of the migrants,  Etur, reminds me of my wife. She has the same green eyes and braided hair. I wish I could remember my wife's name. She was with me when we arrived. I imagine she's still up there, wandering. Waiting.

I wonder if any part of her remembers me?

The others have asked a few questions about the pillar and the granite obelisk balanced on it. I don't talk much, so they aren't surprised when they don't get an answer.

I'd try to make them understand, but they can't hear the whispers, and, even if they could, they are poisoned by false hope. Some talk of escape, as though a second sprint through the dead forest above will end happily. Unlikely. Flocks of rotting peregrins and ravens surround the bone-strewn entryway, roosting in the trees, crouched on the rotting wagon.

The smiths are making my armor, now. All of adamantium. After the whispering ones deal with the dead I intend to see the surface once last time.

I want to witness the totality of my revenge. I want to drink it to the last drop.

By next season I will have the masons wall in the living quarters and farms. The survivors will last as long at they like. If they are wise, they will follow me when I go to see the sun one last time.

I'm not mad, after all. I wouldn't sacrifice them needlessly. Not needlessly.

Not without reason.

Not like the whispers tell me to.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

what sort of a dwarf would want to die or even see the sun...i think you have gone crazy indeed.

[Gojira1000]

Another year, and I am no longer alone with the ghosts. Most died, adding to the numbers of the besiegers, but a few migrants made their way to the gates, and almost 20 of us remain here, trapped below-ground while the dead walk above.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

We heard a caravan arrive some time ago. The screams lasted for a surprisingly long time. They must have had very skillful guards.

The whispers are louder now. The base of the pillar rests on the slick blue top of the spire – and atop it, in turn, a core of granite weighing several hundred tons. The switch is wired and linked and is in my chamber, next to my coffin. It should strike through to the whispering darkness within. If not, well, there are other ways. Anyone can wield a pick.

If you rest your forehead against the adamantine, you can feel it trying to speak.

One of the migrants,  Etur, reminds me of my wife. She has the same green eyes and braided hair. I wish I could remember my wife's name. She was with me when we arrived. I imagine she's still up there, wandering. Waiting.

I wonder if any part of her remembers me?

The others have asked a few questions about the pillar and the granite obelisk balanced on it. I don't talk much, so they aren't surprised when they don't get an answer.

I'd try to make them understand, but they can't hear the whispers, and, even if they could, they are poisoned by false hope. Some talk of escape, as though a second sprint through the dead forest above will end happily. Unlikely. Flocks of rotting peregrins and ravens surround the bone-strewn entryway, roosting in the trees, crouched on the rotting wagon.

The smiths are making my armor, now. All of adamantium. After the whispering ones deal with the dead I intend to see the surface once last time.

I want to witness the totality of my revenge. I want to drink it to the last drop.

By next season I will have the masons wall in the living quarters and farms. The survivors will last as long at they like. If they are wise, they will follow me when I go to see the sun one last time.

I'm not mad, after all. I wouldn't sacrifice them needlessly. Not needlessly.

Not without reason.

Not like the whispers tell me to.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

what sort of a dwarf would want to die or even see the sun...i think you have gone crazy indeed.

I'm glad you caught that I imagine this will all fall apart this evening when I try to get it to work properly.

[angelious]

Another year, and I am no longer alone with the ghosts. Most died, adding to the numbers of the besiegers, but a few migrants made their way to the gates, and almost 20 of us remain here, trapped below-ground while the dead walk above.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

We heard a caravan arrive some time ago. The screams lasted for a surprisingly long time. They must have had very skillful guards.

The whispers are louder now. The base of the pillar rests on the slick blue top of the spire – and atop it, in turn, a core of granite weighing several hundred tons. The switch is wired and linked and is in my chamber, next to my coffin. It should strike through to the whispering darkness within. If not, well, there are other ways. Anyone can wield a pick.

If you rest your forehead against the adamantine, you can feel it trying to speak.

One of the migrants,  Etur, reminds me of my wife. She has the same green eyes and braided hair. I wish I could remember my wife's name. She was with me when we arrived. I imagine she's still up there, wandering. Waiting.

I wonder if any part of her remembers me?

The others have asked a few questions about the pillar and the granite obelisk balanced on it. I don't talk much, so they aren't surprised when they don't get an answer.

I'd try to make them understand, but they can't hear the whispers, and, even if they could, they are poisoned by false hope. Some talk of escape, as though a second sprint through the dead forest above will end happily. Unlikely. Flocks of rotting peregrins and ravens surround the bone-strewn entryway, roosting in the trees, crouched on the rotting wagon.

The smiths are making my armor, now. All of adamantium. After the whispering ones deal with the dead I intend to see the surface once last time.

I want to witness the totality of my revenge. I want to drink it to the last drop.

By next season I will have the masons wall in the living quarters and farms. The survivors will last as long at they like. If they are wise, they will follow me when I go to see the sun one last time.

I'm not mad, after all. I wouldn't sacrifice them needlessly. Not needlessly.

Not without reason.

Not like the whispers tell me to.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

what sort of a dwarf would want to die or even see the sun...i think you have gone crazy indeed.

I'm glad you caught that I imagine this will all fall apart this evening when I try to get it to work properly.

'


just make sure you are air tight sealed underground.


my only "succesful" sinister biome fort

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

which was in a picturesque spot by the way

faltered because my watering system was basically just leading the water down a drain and join up with the waterfall. income the deadly dust that turns everybody to husks and it goes in through the water canal and boom.

fort is dead.